


Wild Horses

by nancy



Series: When The Whip Comes Down [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Flogging, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nancy/pseuds/nancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to When The Whip Comes Down. This is my many-years-later attempt to give the boys something like a happy ending, and to write bdsm kink that is not totally dysfunctional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Horses

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd with much love, support and attention to detail by Mog, and Primrose_Burrows, and Kill_claudio, and Fickleanactoria, Thanks!
> 
> Dedication: For my late great friend Mog(C.M. Decarnin) who died before this story was finished. i miss you so fucking much!
> 
> Song title and lyrics borrowed without permission from Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

~-~

_clack-clack-clack-clack-clack_

I wake up fast. The house is dark, except for the television. I wait to hear "CPD!!" and a repeat of the distinctive five-rap knock that means, _you're busted_ , but I'm pretty sure it's Fraser. Silence, and only one pair of feet in shadow under the door.

"You knock like a cop" I tell him, leaning against the side of the door and letting it rock me back and forth. I rub my eyes in the bright light from the hallway. He mumbles something under his breath, but then he clears his throat and asks me politely, "I know it's late, Ray, but may I come in?"

I notice he doesn't apologize for waking me up, just acknowledges it, like he's gonna go ahead and forgive me for not waiting up for him, even though him knocking at my door after midnight has never, ever happened before. "Yeah, sure. 'Course. Coffee

"No, thank you."

I turn off the infomercial on the TV and flip the light switch on, squinting at him in the brightness. Fraser's followed me into the room, but he doesn't sit down. He's wearing boots, jeans, a black t-shirt and flannel shirt, and his Sam Brown belt. I guess I don't have to ask him why's he's here, then. It's pretty shocking, him disgracing the uniform like that, lookin' all kinky and sexy with that big, broad stretch of leather wrapped around his waist. It doesn't fit through the belt loops of his blue jeans. Still looks hot, really _really_ hot. He catches me staring and his hands move to the belt buckle. _Slowly_ he takes it off, lays it down over the arm of the couch.

"Have your welts healed, Ray?"

Just like mine were a minute ago on his belt, Fraser's eyes are glued to my midsection, and his stare is more than casual speculation, it's predatory, possessive, and I feel myself starting to harden in response while my brain struggles to process what he said. "Yeah, mostly. I think so."

"May I see?"

"You want me to drop trou right now? We're not going to talk about this or anything?" My voice just about squeaks at the end of my question. I sound as panicky as I feel, and I want to kick myself for letting it show. I'm ashamed of myself, because by this time I should be better at covering up my feeling.

"We never have in the past." He answers me softly, some kind of regret or maybe apology in his eyes, when they finally meet my stare. After a moment he lowers his gaze back down to the crotch of my flannel pajama bottoms, which are starting to look like a plaid circus tent from all the attention. He's right about that, we never talk about it. In spite of that, we've managed to develop a long list of rules and barriers. Somehow, without ever acknowledging it all, we've managed to twist and complicate this secret part of our relationship until it's just as messed up as every other part of our lives. One thing I do know, Fraser coming to _me_ , knocking on _my_ door, is way the hell out of bounds. We're off the map, and I'm off balance, don't know what kind of leverage I have or how to use it.

"Yeah, well, _you've_ never come calling for it, either. So maybe we should." I still sound scared, defensive and belligerent and stupid. I hate what he does to me, what he _always_ does to me. I'm freaked out by his blatant, come-on eyes, the intimidating way he just barged into my apartment and took his belt off, by everything. What the hell happened to _Fraser_?

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and looks me in the eye. "A great deal of what you said last week is true, Ray. I do have difficulty acknowledging this aspect of my character. However, as in all other areas of our partnership, you complement my condition so perfectly that words have often seemed... superfluous."

"You're welcome." I tell him, just to say something.

"No, complement as in a state of balance and symmetry--"

"I know what the word means, Fraser. So then... you didn't come here to talk?"

"No, Ray. I didn't come here to talk."

My shoulders hunch up and I tense up all over, reacting to the tone of threatening menace in his words. He takes one single step towards me and I panic, open my mouth to say _something_ to hold him off a second.

"Maybe your plan was to surprise me while I was sleeping and take me by force, but you forgot your lock pick?"

My voice has gone up an octave, and I shut up fast. Fraser can probably hear my heart pounding anyway. What the hell is wrong with me? If Fraser has decided beating me black and blue is perfectly okay and also something he desires... well, that's right up there at the top of the list. Better than Stella coming back. Better than winning the lottery.

That makes him laugh, well, choke, anyways. He cracks a grin, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, rubs the knuckle of his left thumb over his eyebrow. For the first time, he looks something less than one hundred percent self-assured. "No, no, certainly not. To be perfectly honest I had assumed that my presence would be welcome and my intentions understood, without the necessity of any lengthy negotiations."

Okay, good, the panic is settling down, but the stubborn, hurting, _angry_ feeling only gets bigger. What right does he have to come here and just _demand_ it, _assume_ , and _intend_?

"Because that's worked so good so far, right?"

I'm holding it together by the frayed shreds of my pride and the memories of how much pain he can ( _will_ ) cause me, and it hurts so bad, to have to try to hold my ground like this, when all I want to do is drop down to my knees in front of him. There is a rage inside him that is so pure and so perfectly controlled that I imagine it as a six foot long rod of shining stainless steel going right down the center of him, and I want to bind myself to that cold metal, hang myself up on it and test its strength over and over again.

"Ray, I... I can give you what you need."

"Yeah? What about what YOU need, Fraser?"

"I am prepared to take that from you as well."

While he speaks his hands go behind his back, at the waist of his jeans, and for a crazy split second I expect to see a gun, but the coiled bullwhip he produces from under his flannel shirt knocks the wind out of me as effectively as a shot.

"Oh. Good." I think that's me saying that, except I can't really hear because of the rushing-crashing sounds in my head, like waves hitting the rocks in a thunderstorm.

"Then are we finished talking?" His fingers stroke the handle of the whip, and the familiarity of his touch sends shivers down my spine and goose bumps break out everywhere, every pore in my body thinking, _maybe he'll touch me first_.

"Not yet. One question. Do you know what you're going to do with me when you're done with those?" I nod at the belt, and the coil of braided leather he's set down next to it. "I mean, are you gonna bolt on me? Because I've pretty much met my monthly quota on scenes with psycho Doms that crack up at the good part."

"I'm sorry, Ray. That won't happen again, I promise you."

What he's saying is huge, and it sounds like he really means it, about he's sorry, about last time, about all the other times... but I don't even have time to enjoy it because my knees have already hit the floor and I'm inching towards the scuffed toes of his cowboy boots, and I can't talk anymore, not unless he makes me. I've never put myself this close to his dick before, my mouth is no more than an inch from his button fly. I look up, to see if I've scared him off already, but the look on his face is anything but scared.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and lets it out slow, his lips pursed so that the air whistles a little through his teeth. One hand makes a little move, reaching for the top of my head, but then he pulls it back to his side and says, "Stand up and take your pants off, please. I want to look at you."

Okay- inspection time. I pretend I'm not afraid of him and what he wants from me, as I hurry to follow his orders. I pretend I'm not scared of my own need, growing bigger and bigger inside of me. I pretend I'm not terrified of my own uncontrollable lust, a wild animal clawing at my insides while his hands come down hard on my shoulders, bending me over so that he can carefully inspect my flanks, thighs, cheeks; his fingertips' feathery brush against my goose flesh feels rough as sandpaper.

Unleashed, my need becomes a monstrous thing, so huge and ugly I imagine it as a brick wall, as if I can feel it already, how his whip will snap against this brick wall instead of the skin on my back again and again and how I will go crazy, totally ballistic stuck behind it-- and he'll never know unless I try to tell him.

"Frase?"

"Yes, Ray?" He sounds a little surprised that I want to talk some more, but willing to listen. He pushes me back upright with a hand on my shoulder; the other hand returns to the base of my spine, holding me straight and still.

"This is gonna sound more messed up than anything, but I gotta say it." I can't look at him, my eyes dart around the room, fix on the white of the window shade on the far wall behind his head. I talk fast, trying to get it out, "I want more from you than I can take, more than is safe or sane or reasonable to ask for, because the more you give me the more I need and the need is gonna eat me alive and I'm gonna have nothing... no wait, I know I'm not making sense, lemme try again. When I need it real bad, _real_ bad, it's like... I'm stuck behind that need and I just keep eating it up, everything you're dishin' out, but I can't feel it, the greed for it is so big it doesn't let me feel it, and I go crazy trying to get to it, and then if I do, finally, you'll stop, and I'll eat myself alive from the inside, or turn on you, which would be even worse. What if-"

"Shhh... stop talking now." Two fingers touch my lips, gently, and I freeze. "I understand what you're trying to explain, I know, Ray, and I'm not going to let it be like that, I promise. I'm going to give you plenty, as much as you want, more. Now you must put yourself in my hands and stop thinking about it, let me tell you what to feel, when to feel, here... here..." His fingers press hard at pressure points down my spine, starting at the base of my skull and ending with a finger pressing not so gently in and out of my ass, the invasion so harsh and quick that I'm too shocked to react, wonder if that really just happened.

"Thank you, Fraser."

"Do you want to call me Sir or Master? Will that make it easier for you? Do the words excite you?"

"Not so much, it's more of a turn-on to say your name, actually. But I will if you want me to."

That puts color in his face; he looks like he's burnin' up. "Well, no, then don't."

Fraser looks around the apartment, and I know he's trying to decide where to put me, where he'll have the most space, and after a moment he walks me over to the counter top that divides the kitchen from the living room. Good choice. I'm glad I did the dishes. His touch moves up to the middle of my back, pushing me firmly down over the counter. It's a good height for me, and I can reach across and hang on to the edge, which reminds me of his desk.

"Stay," he whispers, and for a too-quick moment his hand slides up my back and into my hair, petting the back of my head. "Do you want to choose a safe word, Ray?"

Oh wow, I think he did some research. When we're done, I'm going to find a way to make him tell me all about what happened with him, what made him suddenly decide he's okay with this, all dressed up and ready to order my crazy ass around. I have a thing about safe words, though-- I hate 'em. Only time I'll use one is if I'm playing with a total stranger, and even then, it's to put _their_ mind at ease and get on with the show, because I know before I begin that I'm not going to use it, that they'll be done before I will, and maybe this is pure bragging, but I never have used one yet.

"No thanks. You know me better than I do." What I want to tell him is that there is no limit, that he already owns me and he is welcome to take as much as he needs, regardless of whether I'm still conscious or not, but I can't find the words to tell him that, so I just put my head down and flatten myself out on the counter top and wait for him to be ready. I have no idea what brought this change about, that he's _here_ in my apartment in the middle of the night, ready to claim me. I don't understand, but I'm happy, gloriously happy, because he's here, standing in my house and actually present, offering me everything I want.

"Very well, I'll give you one, then. If you want me to stop, say "Chicago".

There's no more conversation, and no foreplay, I hear him take a deep breath and relax my muscles, waiting for it. He begins as he always does, hard. The tremendous weight and power in that first thwack of the belt is jarring, sickening, but the shock of it fades fast when another crack follows and that first gut-plunging, dizzying pain swells and mixes with the next, and the next, getting easier now. The strokes of the belt coming down on me are heavy and even, familiar, delivered with deliberate timing and precision to land on the exact center of each side of my ass, left, right, left, right. His pace is a little slower, kinder, than I'm used to from him, he's actually allowing me time to breathe deeply between each stroke. Inhale, _impact_ , exhale, inhale, _impact_ , exhale. So heavy it feels like he's going to split me in half. The hardness of the counter top beneath me doesn't help me absorb the blows as I am flattened even tighter against it, impact after impact, and the pain begins to fill me up, my skin swells as fireworks explode inside my head. It's perfect, this rhythm; the pain is flowing smoothly through my body, endless. Already I am seduced, entranced by the steady beat and the tremendous strength of his arm. I focus entirely on sound, allow myself to be hypnotized by the beat: the harsh sounds of his breathing, and of mine; the pistol-shot crack of the belt, and the whisper of sound that comes out of my throat, "uhhh...", as the leather comes up off my skin. Inhale, impact, exhale. Inhale, impact, exhale... _easy_. It feels so good I might just go ahead and come here all by myself. But I'm not by myself, he's right here on top of me, I can feel the touch of _him_ with every stroke. His eyes never leave me for a second, his attention is focused so hard it's something I can feel as strong as a touch, right at the base of my spine.

I bite my tongue hard to keep from calling out to him, to keep from screaming his name. I want to tell him how good it is, how hot I am, how huge my devotion to his left arm is right now. Right now it's perfect. I'm molten, I'm melting, I only exist for the second that the belt crashes into me and then I'm gone; burned up on the pain and then he brings me back again, and again, until he is the only thing keeping me alive. Inhaling so that the belt will come down on me again, so I can disappear again, so he can force me back again, and I can feel him right behind me, riding this wave with me. I am nothing, just a ball of fire in his hands. The pain comes closer, wraps around me, suffocates me, traps me beneath layers of agony. I can hear myself, far away, moaning. I have no shame left inside me, no defiance, no rage, I only have room for the pain that fills me up as fast as I can swallow it and then overflows, pours back out of my mouth in long, loud streams of sound. No words, I don't know words, only the existence and the need of him. I don't know the word _stop_ , I don't remember the word _no_ ; I forgot them the first time he hit me.

I don't know where we are, I haven't been keeping track, haven't been counting. He didn't tell me to so I don't have to think about it. I don't have to worry about how much more or when it will stop, he's got that. After a while my mouth dries up and the sounds I'm making get harsh and raspy in my throat, which is sore and raw, it almost feels like he's been fucking it by making me scream. Suddenly, the belt stops, and I choke and cough; I don't know how to breathe without the belt telling me it's time to do that. It's inky black behind my eyelids and I'm scared to open them, scared the pain will get worse if I do, and it hurts so bad already. Wet plastic presses against my lips; he's holding a cup to my mouth. I sip obediently, but I don't open my eyes.

"Ray. Drink, that's good. You were very good. I'm going to let you rest before we begin with the whip, just stay right there, don't move."

Ahhh... he said I was good. I'm good. I'm so good. I'm scared of the whip. It looked so heavy. He's going to shred my welted, burning ass and I'm going to scream my head off. I really wish he could have tied me down first; I'm worried I won't be able to hold still for it. I hear it cracking behind me somewhere, a big, brown snake, a monster. He's warming up, loosening the stiffness from the leather and his arm. I trust him. I trust him. I trust his aim, I trust him to wait until I can take it. I trust him to teach me how to do it, how to take it for him. I realize I'm crying, hot tears are sliding slowly down my cheeks and I can't make my fingers uncurl from the edge of the counter top to wipe my face. It's like he just tore me open and let all the poison run out. I am so happy right now, all I feel is quiet and still and happy, I don't want to move or think or talk, I just want this moment to last forever. The whip is cracking repetitiously behind me, but the loud noise doesn't make me jump like it should. I've already given in to it, accepted it. I know that for sure when he comes back to give me another drink of water before we start.

"I'm ready." I tell him, finally opening my eyes to focus blurrily on his face for a few precious seconds. His eyes are sparkling with hunger. I see lust and the pure need to devour in his terribly bright blue eyes. He's going to consume me whole, complete. He's going to take everything.

"Good. Do you want to count or should I?"

"I think I need to. What am I counting to?"

"Fifty."

"NO"

"Yes."

"Fraser-"

"Ray."

"I won't make it."

"You will."

"I'm scared."

"That's good. Then we'll begin. Don't count the first one, I need to mark my sight."

"Yes Fraser."

He sighs, and I can feel his eyes moving over me. He liked hearing that, I can tell; that did it for him. "I wish I had the words to tell you... but I can show you." His voice moves behind me, I hear him backing away and the whip uncurling at his feet, slithering around dangerously on the floor. Then it's whistling through the air and I hear it coming for a mile before it hits my skin. I wait for the searing, cutting pain but it's not there, it barely touched me, just kissing the hairs on my skin in the exact center of my back.

"There. We're ready now. Count loud enough for me to hear you, Ray."

I don't think that's going to be a problem. It comes back fast, before I remember to take a deep breath, the very tip of the whip slices into my left shoulder blade, and it makes me yell out "ONE!" at the top of my lungs. I spare a moment out of my agony to pray sincerely to God that none of my neighbors call the cops. I don't think they will; they never have before. Oh that is mean, that is awful. It's _evil_ , it's _bad bad bad_ not good pain.

"That's right, see, you can..."

Yes, of course I _can_ , I can take it, I can take it but I hate it, almost hate him for giving it to me, but I'm too proud to complain. I count two, exhaling the sound carefully, listening to his voice, "Do this, just relax and do this for me. It's just going to touch you, Ray." Three, four, five, they land too fast to feel, the cut so sharp it takes seconds for the pain to rise to the surface and then there's already another, and another. My brain is starting to panic. I'm trying too hard to understand this, what to do with it, how to anticipate it, but my body is already submitting, so grateful. I'm so happy to suffer for him, to have this chance to hurt _bad_ for him and show off, show him exactly how far my commitment to him goes, that I will take this from him, take anything, without complaint, that I will take more, more...

I don't think, I just count, and try to listen for his voice. I imagine myself as a black hole, sucking in all his rage and frustration and discontent. I think about how good it looks, to him, what it's doing for him to let loose like this. God, he's fast, I can't figure out how to breathe with this thing, it just keeps coming and I can't keep up with him. I'm terrified, but I'm fascinated, half hypnotized, already, by the formidable skill and accuracy of this weapon in his hands, pure evil. We're closing in on twenty-five, and I tell myself it's already half over. I want it to be over, and I don't want it to stop. I think I might come or pass out or start screaming really loud and hysterically, but instead I just keep counting.

"This is what I want. Take this from me. Hold it for me. Now give it back, give it to me, Ray, I want it..."

I count steadily over the noise of the whip and the quiet stream of his instructions. I'm so grateful that he's here to take care of me, to help me do this for him. The whip lands two different ways: sometimes it crashes down like a rock, bruising, welting; sometimes it cuts like a knife, slicing icy and hot. Both are _hard_ , horrible. The pain is building fast and furious, getting uglier with every stroke, but his voice is right there behind it, guiding me through it. Oh my god, Fraser, this is incredible, this is incredibly dangerous because I want it to go on forever, I want it to shred me down to nothing. My dark and ugly insides are feeding, _feasting_ on this power. The pain and the rage and the terror flying down his arm and sinking under my skin are welcome, so welcome and I can gorge myself on this agony because it's not going to stop, he's going to give me more and more. I am so full of love and adoration for him right now, it is such an incredible thing, to trust him, to know that he is not going to stop until we get where we're going, he's not going to leave me out here alone.

Gradually, I lose track of his voice, I am totally focused on my insides, on the heat pouring off my back, the way my skin has become elastic, contracting, folding and blooming under the kiss of the whip. I know I'm still counting but I don't really hear it, it's just another automatic response to the impact, like my muscles rolling and flexing and the sweat running down my sides. His boots on the wood floor make a thud as he steps forward and back with the whip; the triple beat of thud-crack-count, thud-crack-count is a strong baseline to anchor my consciousness to while I float away on sensation. Colors bloom red and yellow behind my closed eyes, I can't tell if the wetness I feel on my skin is blood or sweat, it's slippery, shiny, metallic, the taste in my mouth and the cold wind that rushes over my skin before each impact. I'm getting very tired, and my arms and legs are numb. I don't think they will hold me up much longer, but he's exhausting himself, too; I can hear him panting, and the thud of his boot on the floor gets heavier, falters. The whip misses once, wraps around my middle and makes me choke, then again, two strokes later, around my leg and he makes a noise of disgust and drops it. I realize we have reached forty-eight and I'm all out of voice, it's just _gone_. I open my mouth to call his name and no sound comes out.

He comes to me quickly, around the counter to the other side, and he pries my fingers off the edge of the tile to hold my hands in his, squeezing and rubbing my palms with his thumbs. "Oh Ray. That was... thank you."

His voice is raspy, like mine, when I answer him, squeezing back hard now that feeling is returning to my fingers, hanging on. "All yours. Always have been."

"I know. Don't move, please. Just let me look at you."

"Okay. Yes Fraser."

"Are you okay? Do you need anything right now?"

"Just you." I wheeze, still catching my breath, hanging on to his hands for dear life as the pain burns deep, heat radiating off me in dizzying waves.

His fingers squeeze back, and the smile plastered across his sweaty face makes every single welt and cut worth it.

"I'm here." He tells me quietly, giving me time to catch my breath and work on coming back down to planet earth.

"Mmm-hmm." He looks gorgeous right now, fucking incredible, his t-shirt is damp and his breath is still coming fast, there's a wet spot on his jeans, too, right in front of my face, just inches away. Oh God I want him. I want to taste him, touch him, worship him. He's standing directly in front of me, just out of reach, just holding my hands steady. I can't move yet, none of my muscles are ready to do moving.

A shadow of upset crosses over his face and one hand lets go of mine to touch my side, tracing the nasty red line of almost cut skin where the whip curled around my ribs and left a thin, raised welt. His fingers trace it lightly right around my side to where my stomach touches the counter top.

"I'm so sorry. An unforgivable error. I should have stopped as soon as I realized my energy was flagging. I'm out of practice after so much time...I did prepare, of course."

"Yeah? You practiced?"

His face flushes red again, he was just getting back to his normal complexion. "Well yes, of course, Ray. It wouldn't be wise to use such a dangerous weapon without proper time to practice my aim and reacquaint myself with its properties."

"You practiced on a person?" I think I manage to keep my voice neutral, but probably he can see from the look on my face that already I'm angry, burning with jealously at the very _thought_ of Fraser doing anything with anybody, but especially this; this is mine. I look straight up into his face, demanding an explanation.

He smiles, shakes his head, no, while his eyes roam possessively over the naked skin he just put so much effort into. I feel like my whole body is one big _throb_. The way he's looking at me changes the pain into something else, something dark and hot and nasty.

"Certainly not, Ray. I practiced on trees in the park after dark, and on various objects in my room, when such opportunities presented themselves."

"Oh. Good." Because if you ever do that to anyone else I will hunt them down and kill them.

He leaves me for a moment to refill our water, holding it patiently to my mouth and making sure I get enough in me, although plenty runs down my chin. He stands right in front of me with the cup, so all I see over the rim is his crotch, still a hard and promising bulge over the worn denim.

"I think it's time to move you to the bedroom." He murmurs, the cup goes away and his hands move fast at his waist and then metal spins hard and clinks around my wrist, flash of silver as my eyes follow to the second cuff, _click_. He damn well better have the key... I don't like being handcuffed, it fucks with my head. It's crossing streams or something, because rope's okay, leather restraints are okay, but I don't feel right in handcuffs, makes me freaky and liable to go all ugly and crazy on you. I hold my breath, trying to calm down quick. _It's Fraser, it's okay, it's Fraser, you're safe_. It's no use, I start to kick and twist and fight him, all over the place in my panic.

"Stop! Don't fight me, Ray."

His voice brooks no argument, not one inch of concession for my panic, he's not going to hear it, so it would behoove me to get it the fuck together here, fast. He has a good grip on the chain between the cuffs, and the other arm wraps around my waist, lifting me up against his side to haul me across the floor and into the bedroom. He tosses me face-first on the bed and falls down after me, his weight more than enough to hold me down.

"Okay, okay, let up, please. I'm good. I won't..."

"Oh, but you will. If I desire it." His voice is hot in my ear, the tone menacing. One of his legs pushes between mine, pressing against the welted skin on my ass and thighs, and it hurts so bad I cry out. Ah man he's so mean, I don't deserve this, not after what I just took for him. Why couldn't he have let me suck him off right there in the kitchen, all happy and groovy with the pain? Now his jeans rub roughly against my ass and it hurts bad, it feels like I'm bleeding, or maybe the skin is just peeled right off.

Okay, okay, I don't have to freak out here, it's Fraser, I'm safe. I can make myself forget about the handcuffs if I keep my eyes closed and my hands still. It really, really hurts, the way he's rubbing himself so hard and rough on my welted, burning skin. If he's going to do that, I wish to god he'd take his clothes off first.

My quiet monotone stream of, "Please stop, please stop, please stop" is totally ignored. The pain doesn't get any worse, but it doesn't go away, either. After a while I shut up and give in, my body goes limp underneath him and we sink a little into the bed.

"Thank you, Ray," he murmurs.

He stops moving, lies still on top of me with his legs between mine and his weight braced on his arms on either side of me. He's let go of the cuffs but my hands haven't moved. He lays his cheek against the back of my head for a minute and his breath is warm on my neck. Now this is good, he can stay like this all night and I won't complain.

"Lie still, Ray. I want to look at you." He sits up on his knees, one hand laid warm and reassuring on the back of my leg.

"I did considerable damage," he tells me softly, gentle hands running lightly over my ass and thighs.

"No, you just made it show. The damage was already there." I answer just as soft, afraid to jar the stillness.

"It was such an honor, to have you under me like that, to be allowed to release... I can't even find the words to tell you, Ray. You are amazing. Amazingly beautiful."

"Thank you." I whisper, undulating carefully for him, lifting my hips and rolling my shoulders to show off all that's available to him.

"You're going to let me use you now." It's not a question.

"Yes, Fraser." If he wants to slice the flesh off me and eat me for dinner, he can.

I feel his weight lift up off the bed and I stretch, try to relax my muscles, listen to the sounds of clothing coming off in a hurry. When he lies down on top of me his weight squashes me flat, pushing me deep into the mattress.

His voice whispers harsh in my ear, "Ray, do you have-?"

"Nightstand. Drawer." I groan.

He climbs over me to get to the head of the bed and for a second I'm lying there with his stomach resting against the back of my head and I think about how if I could manage to squirm my way over onto my back underneath him I could get his cock in my mouth real easy but I'm not going to. I'm going to let Fraser fuck me, and the realization of that is enough to throw me into a whole new stratosphere of panic. I'm going to let Fraser fuck me in the ass and it's probably going to hurt, a lot, and I'm probably not going to enjoy it, at all. I know this because I've tried it exactly twice, before, with two different Doms, and I hated it, both times.

I don't say any of that. I keep my mouth shut tight while he's squeezing out lube and shifting us around and positioning himself between my legs. Fraser seems to know exactly what he wants, and that's a good thing, a wonderful thing. I squirm on his finger, I can't help it, and I must have let out some kind of complaining noise, because Fraser shushes me with soothing sounds and a hand, petting over my hip. It does soothe me, it feels really good, and he does it over and over again, the same stroke over the curve of my hipbone and around and over my ass cheek. I feel my whole body melting into that gentle, constant touch, his palm never leaves my skin, back and forth, back and forth, while his finger presses slowly inside me.

It doesn't hurt, he's using plenty of lube and taking it slow, but it doesn't feel good, either. I kind of wish he would hurt me, or at least hurry up a little. But Fraser's not in a hurry. Everything happens really slow; just one long finger, and his hand smoothing over my skin matches the rhythm, penetration and withdrawal, and his big, warm hand on my hip, guiding me ever so slightly, back and forth, in and out. So slow, smooth as butter, until I'm so used to the sensation of slow, deep penetration that I miss it and moan in complaint when he pulls all the way out.

_please, please, please, please_

I'm so zoned out on his fingers moving inside me that I don't even know if I'm whispering out loud or only in my head. _This_ is submission, this totally limp, helpless, so-couldn't-move-a-muscle-unless-He-told-me-to feeling; this is the point i'm always missing, and the frustration of it is what keeps me so jacked up all the time. It's hard to remember why I ever wanted to fight this, when it feels so good to give in, to offer up my body and my free will, control of everything. It feels so natural, with Fraser, such a tremendous _relief_ to arch up and push back against his penetration when he finally gives me his cock, to open myself and offer myself, and to beg quietly for more, for Him, for it to never, ever stop.

Thrust deep inside me, Fraser lays down on my back, giving me some of his weight and the gift of his voice hovering behind my ear.

"You make such a mess of me, Ray. Trying to understand you, and everything I feel for you... unmakes me. I've been a terrible coward, and you've been very patient. Is this what you were waiting for?"

Fraser moves deep and slow, all the control in the world, holding back a tsunami. He talks to me, and I make myself listen, knowing this is the truth I was so determined to get out of him. _I_ make a mess of _him_? Now that's enlightening. How could I tell? He never shows it, never cracks that hard veneer of pride and politeness and determination, but I think even his outside layers are beautiful, no matter how much trouble they cause me.

"No. Yes. Fraser... You. Just you." I pant back at him. I don't know how he can do this and talk at the same time, especially after the workout he just had.

"Ray... I was confused about what we do together. I assumed that because it's expressed with violence, that implied a deviance, a perversity in the sense that we were dishonoring our partnership, that we were hurting each other, using each other to obtain a temporary satisfaction. Then, after you left the last time, I realized that the only thing that was making it be that way was my attitude about it. You need this experience, to be given pain by someone you trust, and it doesn't hurt you... not in a bad way. I need to control, and facilitate... I need to be needed. I hurt you more by rejecting the desire to take part in this ritual with you, by not taking it seriously. It is serious, Ray; I'm serious, and I can't do this with you and be... casual, about it. It is connected to everything else, it is a part of our partnership and trying to trivialize it was what made it wrong, for me."

"I get it, Fraser. I'm serious, too, about us."

"Good."

Fraser only says one word, but the relief in his voice is enough to say everything.

I think I get what he's saying, about how we were using each other, pretending to have anonymous sex with each other. I don't want to do that, don't want him to do it to me, either.

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Chicago."

I'm not telling him to get out of my ass, and fortunately, he gets that. I'm telling him that this is it, I'm done screwing around. I'm done taunting him with it, all done pretending, all done trying to get it from anybody else. I surrender. To _Him_ , always and only him, for the foreseeable future, so he better understand what he's getting and take good care of it.

Fraser thrusts all the way in, hard and deep, so there's no room left inside for anything but his cock, his strength, his will, and I love it, love it that he's staking his claim on me. He lays down on top of me, covers me with his body and whispers it back to me, right in my ear.

"Ray... Chicago," And I know it's going to be okay, now. That's really all he had to say.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I watched you suffer a dull aching pain  
> now you've decided to show me the same  
> No sweeping exits or off stage lines  
> Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind  
> Wild horses, couldn't drag me away  
> Wild wild horses couldn't drag me away
> 
> I know I've dreamed you a sin and a lie  
> I have my freedom but I don't have much time  
> Faith has been broken tears must be cried  
> Let's do some living after we die  
> Wild horses, couldn't drag me away  
> Wild wild horses we'll ride them someday


End file.
